


I Heard it from a Friend

by Anya (aCrowdOfStars)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, F/M, John "Three Continents" Watson, M/M, Masturbation, because it needs it, but i wanted to post it, currently being edited, john watson is a sex god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-23 22:43:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2558408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aCrowdOfStars/pseuds/Anya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Yarders get treated to a Sherlock-free John and a fair amount of innuendo. </p><p>A character study, of sorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Heard it from a Friend

**Author's Note:**

> I have just abused the ever-loving shit out of commas in this story. Just, seriously, I've done terrible things to commas here. 
> 
> This story is about how I don't care what A Sign of Three said, John Watson has an international reputation, and it is all about his ability to melt your brain with sex. 
> 
> Definitely not beta'd, hell, not even reviewed by ME, not Brit picked. Inspired a year and a half ago by a GW II vet I adore who tells the most hilarious stories ever while never touching on the really traumatic shit he has gone through.

Greg was three pints deep when he saw Sally, three whiskey tonics deep, motioning emphatically at the door. Sally was not normally given to over-imbibing, but it had been a hard, long eight days, and the beckoning call of a morning away from the Yard was enough to push the most stalwart of teetotalers to the drink. It was cause for celebration; cause for pretending they weren't all strung out on the adrenaline of wrapping up three cases in two days and not needing any consultations whatsoever. Blinking away a slight press of double vision, Greg looked towards the doorway of The Three Stars, a pub frequented almost exclusively by the various crime fighting organizations of the British government, and saw John Watson return Sally’s wave and make his way towards them. 

Ever since their consultant, their constant aggravation, their source of much headaches and sleepless nights, their begrudgingly-thanked-for-taking-down-a-massive-crime-network detective, had returned from the dead, Sally had launched herself into a campaign of penitence. For three months, she was overly solicitous of Sherlock, downright groveling to John, and had brought Greg so many cups of coffee he was beginning to suspect he’d developed a caffeine addiction and a heart palpitation. It took Sherlock finally snapping on a crime scene - “ _For God’s sake, Donovan, nobody cares how sorry you are!_ ” - and John pulling her aside immediately afterwards and holding a whispered conversation for the somewhat appreciated but mostly unnerving gifts to end. 

Greg couldn’t hear what he said, nor any of Sally’s responses, but at the end, he, along with the gathered Yarders, had stared in poorly disguised astonishment as he tugged her forward into a brief hug. Since then, Sally had gone back to calling Sherlock a freak, while recommending relaxing vocations to John, and a general air of fondness had settled between them. It only caused Greg the mildest of indigestion when he took the time to consider it.

John had forgone his jumper and black coat for a simple button down and non-descript (but flattering, Sally thought) jeans. He stopped by the bar and snagged a pint before being invited to wedge himself between Greg and Kirkland, a clever but over-eager detective transferred from, of all places, the states. He greeted everyone he knew in turn, and exchanged handshakes and nods with the people to whom he was introduced. Sally indicated the woman to her left, a happy faced ginger with impressive dimples, as a friend from the academy who “went soft, got into research instead,” named Josie Meath. John gave a good natured eyeroll to Sally and leaned to shake Josie’s hand. Josie grinned daringly at him, and he returned it in kind. Dimmock was watching Josie out of the corner of his eye with a hint of want.

“What brings you out without your pet?” Greg said, with no malice in his tone. John took it in stride, laughing.

“He’s out arguing with his brother about something. I haven’t the faintest. Stopped listening after the second monologue.” John took a swig of his drink and turned to Kirkland. “How’s the Empire treating you?”

“Good, good!” said Kirkland, who was nursing only his second pint. His first attempt to drink the much higher alcohol content beers of England had led to a very embarrassing episode in an alleyway he was loathe to repeat. He was smart enough to test and feel his limits before trying again. “I miss American bars, though,” he said, waving a hand at the crowd. “You people actually come here to talk to one another. We go to chase tail.” He paused. “That means ‘pull’ or whatever.” Everyone laughed at his poor attempt at a public school accent. 

There was good natured ribbing exchanged then amongst the old and new friends, John occasionally joining in with added commentary on stories of failed attempts at pulling amongst the Yard when it was a story he knew. 

Greg was just drunk enough to appreciate the Sherlock-free John, the one with the happy, easy smiles and affable nature, the constitution that had better chance to shine when not attempting to reel in a self-diagnosed sociopath. The stories of embarrassing failures led way, as three-then-four drink conversations often did, to bad uni experiences, missed connections, lost loves. It was a good flow. No one veered too closely to broken hearts or truly lost experiences. They talked of humiliations, but just slight ones, at the hands of potential lovers. 

In a moment of frankness, Sally admitted to a night when she threw herself at a man who had been so obviously gay to everyone but her that she actually moved flats to get away from the pitying looks of the neighbors (“ _every time I saw my landlady, she would pat my arm and say, you poor dear_ ”). Greg told of a woman in academy he’d met that had seemed absolutely perfect until she took everything she learned from a lecture on kidnapping and brainwashing and attempted to use it on him (“ _she kept trying to handcuff me to the door while spouting bloody Freud_ ”). Dimmock talked of a girl he met at a party who was unbelievably gorgeous (“ _legs for days, mate, legs for years_ ”) that had flashed a smile at him and then disappeared after he’d failed to stop choking on his tongue in nervous fear for forty minutes. To everyone’s immense surprise, John offered a story of a woman he’d met providing aid care in an Afghan village who had the most beautiful smile he’d ever seen, and how ( _almost_ ) everyone’s smile since had paled in comparison from the moment he’d seen it. He then confessed he spent three days wooing her (“ _with my considerable uniformed charm_ ”) before realizing she was a nun. 

Everyone refrained from mentioning that this was the first time they’d ever heard John directly mention Afghanistan and his time there. No one really asked about his service, and John never really offered any information. Greg had only found out after very indelicately asking John what he’d meant when he’d said he didn't need to imagine what he would say while dying. He’d received a very pointed look, and John had said, “I was shot while overseas.” Occasionally, Sherlock made vague references to John’s time there, and John had provided some case insight when it involved the Middle East, having developed a fair understanding of Farsi, and once or twice, he’d skipped a scene entirely because he was “off with people from his unit”, according to Sherlock. 

The majority of the Yard, however, at least the ones John had constant interactions with, had been completely unaware until Detective Richards, a former Royal Marine, had been killed in the line of duty. He and John had got on well, and at his military burial, John had shown up in full dress uniform. On his chest, he wore an impressive collection of medals and a grim expression. He had conversed quietly with the Richard’s wife, receiving a hug for whatever he’d said, and spent the majority of the gathering afterwards with Richards’ military family, all of whom had been deployed at some point. Sally had walked by and heard them talking of the conditions of the military hospitals out there, and had heard John say, “They ran out of morphine two days after I got admitted. It was fucking hell. Criminal how understocked we were all the time.”

Since then, she’d watched John with a little bit more respect and insight.

Greg flashed John a tipsy grin at John took a swig from his second pint before casually rolling the bottom of the glass against the tabletop, and John grinned back. It was impressive, honestly, the difference between John at rest or in fear to the John that smiled at him. There was a surge of affection in Greg’s chest for John on nights like these, when he pulled himself from Baker Street and came to the pub with the Yarders who didn’t quite like Sherlock, but appreciated what John had done to smooth the worst of Sherlock’s edges. Though he wasn't given to being able to suss out people’s deeper inclinations, Greg wasn't an idiot. He was fully aware that there was a reason that John didn’t easily discuss his time overseas, and it took a great deal of effort to so casually mention it, even in a passing story of misaimed romance. 

It was almost as if the easy broaching of his time in the service had broken some unspoken rule in John’s universe that had to be instantly correctly.

“Watson?!” someone shouted, and John’s pint froze halfway to his mouth, and his eyes widened. “Johnny Three Continents!?” the person continued, and John lowered his drink and had a split second to lean forward and hiss, _Christ, I’m sorry_ before he was bodily lifted off his stool by a giant man, whose merry face contrasted with his size and stature. He set John down deftly and spun the doctor around to seize him up again in a brotherly, ecstatic hug. It was clear that the friendly pats on John’s back were a fair bit more aggressive than he intended, and John winced visibly as he was set down.

With what Lestrade took to be a belated salute, the giant man said, “Captain Watson!” and snapped his fingers to the corner of crinkled eyes. John reflexively returned the salute and then flushed, flicking his eyes back to the Yarders, who watched the exchange with naked interest. This was the first non-Sherlock friend they’d ever met, and the salute sealed it. Someone who knew John before the limp, before the consulting detective, before the mythic dogs and dominatrixes and criminal masterminds and planetariums, was drunk and obviously lacking in any discretion. The potential was enormous.

“Lieutenant Wilson,” sighed John, but there was obvious affection there, and he shoved the man after a moment. “I told you I’d shoot you the next time you picked me up.”

“Not my problem you’re so portable.” Wilson looked at the eager Yarders and laughed heartily, cheeks flushed from drink and seeing an old brother in arms. “Don’t tell me you’re a _copper_ now, Johnny. My heart will fail.”

“Stop calling me Johnny, and no, I’m not. I work with the police but they don’t pay me.” With a grin, John rapid-fire introduced everyone at the table to Wilson, aware that Wilson wouldn’t remember a single name thirty seconds later. Greg made an effort to lean forward and shake Wilson’s hand. “This is Lieutenant Francis Wilson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Shit underling, good friend.” The Yarders raised hands in welcome, and Wilson grinned, blissfully pleased to meet whoever John had decided to befriend after his service. He was the type of man who had clearly thrived in the rough and tumble on the Army, the type of man who no one would've been surprised to see enlist during a war. He was meaty and dense, and John looked downright tiny next to him.

Greg saw a certain deference there, however, the same deference that had flashed in the salute. It hadn’t been ironic, not entirely. He knew it was to him to salute to John first, and John had known to return it only after it had been delivered. Military ranks were important to the two of them, and Greg saw it in the way Wilson hedged around John’s personal space, the way Wilson watched John’s face carefully for approval of his drunken and boisterous joy at seeing a fellow officer. 

“What did you call him?” said Sally suddenly, and Wilson turned too quickly to see John grimace slightly. 

“Johnny! When we weren't in the thick, you know.” A nickname between friends when they weren’t dodging bullets to bandage dying people.

“No, no, not that,” Kirkland said, grinning. “‘Three continents?’”

The grimace became more pronounced on John’s face, and he snaked a hand forth and downed the rest of his pint in one before raising it at the bartender to indicate his need for more. Wilson didn’t seem to notice. His grin became, if possible, more pronounced.

“You mean you don’t know John ‘Three Continents’ Watson?”

“Wilson.” John’s voice was a warning, the steady warning that every Yarder had heard in his voice before, though underneath a different name. Wilson cuffed John’s shoulder.

“Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft,” and it was clear innuendo. At least, it felt like innuendo after all the alcohol consumed. When John didn’t seem to be able to gather a protest quickly enough, Wilson turned to the Yarders and leaned over their high top with a conspiratorial air. “This man,” he pointed at John, “is a god.”

“Oh, Christ,” John said, and dropped his forehead to the bar. His hand still clung to his fresh pint like a lifeline. Wilson barked a laugh and nudged John with such lasciviousness that John downed the still respectable amount of beer in his glass just to justify retreating from the table to get a fresh one.

Sally seized on his abrupt absence. She almost lurched forward to grab Wilson’s wrist.. “A god?” she repeated. “What, because he got, you know-” She indicated her leg, because she didn’t know that it was his shoulder that had been hit.

“Fuck, no, because it took a bullet to stop him.” Wilson disappeared for a split second, obviously to snag his pint off his own table. “That man over there bagged everyone he could, whenever he could. He is a fucking legend.” He glanced back at John appreciatively before looking back. “Haven’t seen him since he got back.”

“Bagged?” Greg repeated, raising an eyebrow and casting a glance at the man who was clearly repeating calming techniques as he rolled his forehead against a bar top that had seen much, much, much better days. 

Wilson followed his look and smirked. “I know, I know, mate. Fucking madness, I know. But he has this thing. He can look at anyone and he does this thing and before you know it, he’s got ‘em. Right there.”

“Got them?” Sally repeated the phrase and Greg’s disbelieving tone. Josie was leaning forward now as well, eyes glinting. Even Kirkland had shifted his posture and turned his head a little to hear Wilson better. 

“I’ve got no idea how he does it, but I had a mate whose girl told him it was as simple as a look, and bam, she’s got no knickers and she walked funny for a week.”

“Wait, you mean that man,” Dimmock, who had been quiet up to this point, said while gesturing at John, who was leaning against the bar and ignoring his table, “is some sort of... some kind of-”

“Sex god?” Sally said on an exhale, and she and Josie turned to watch John approach. He read their faces easily and glared at Wilson.

“Please do not tell me you actually told them about that nick.”

Raising his arms in mock surrender, Wilson said, “I figured they’d’ve heard. What, no more Three-”

John shook his head, rolled his eyes, and took a long drink of his beer. “That is nothing they need to hear about. Stupid army shit,” he said, directing this comment at the Yarders, who were staring at him wide eyed. “You get bored when you sit in the desert for two weeks with nothing to do, believe me.”

Wilson protested a bit longer, but John firmly and deftly pulled him away from the topic, and for a half hour, they told the Yarders stories of the RAMC, though neither man, despite their obvious levels of intoxication, even hinted at anything more serious than mess hall antics and inappropriately hilarious late night conversations in badly put together tents. There was an unspoken understanding: Three Continents was pushing it, and anything more than amusing, blood-and-conflict-free stories were unacceptable. It was still fascinating for John’s new friends, regardless, to hear him laugh as he described the time they’d gotten lost in random hills that were teeming with insurgents, and only found their way to safety when one of their men claimed that Americans had to be close because he could smell their cheap cologne. "No, I swear, I can smell Axe just about the corner. They've given the whole fucking war up with it!" John said, imitating a comrade. Wilson laughed heartily when he spoke of the time John had called a superior officer “ma’am” for an entire conversation before he knew it was just a very soft faced man, and then successfully played it off as a Battlestar Galactica "thing". 

The Yarders drank in the stories, laughing loudly, all clearly trying to imagine the jumper-inclined man at their center decked in combat gear, carrying a gun, being so valiant that he had impressed a man two times his size with his “absolute brass balls of steel, I am telling you. It’s like he thought the bullets were made of sweets, I swear.” 

“They clearly weren’t,” said John, with a slight frown.

Wilson seemed to realize he’d made a mistake, and gave John a friendly, warm smile of apology. “Yeah, they weren’t, but for awhile, no one could duck under cover fire like you, mate. I thought you should’ve been an Olympic limbo champion with how low you could go. Bloody legendary.” John hesitated a second before returning the smile. Wilson slapped him on the back appreciatively, before recounting the time John had been awoken by a siren and dressed so quickly he forgot his trousers but not his boots.

After a time, Wilson and John stepped to a quieter section of the pub alone, and Greg and Sally watched them talk together, saw Wilson indicate at John’s shoulder with a much more subdued, repentant expression, and John shook his head solemnly. John put a hand on Wilson’s own shoulder, and say something quiet and careful, and Wilson nodded, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. Greg and Sally caught each other’s eyes at the same time, though inadvertently, and seemed to understand it was a conversation they weren't meant to observe. They turned their attention to the table.

The table in full swing of debating on the nickname. 

“No fucking way,” said Dimmock. “That guy? Come on.”

“What’s that to mean?” Cavanaugh, a sergeant with the Met who worked with narcotics division, who had stopped by while John and Wilson had been telling stories.

Dimmock made a quick scoff. “You want to tell me that he’s a sex god?”

“And you are?” Greg said, cutting off Cavanaugh’s response, a desperate attempt to reroute the conversation back to good-natured pub talk. As the senior ranking officer, it was an effective tactic that the others gladly followed. After not too long, John rejoined the table, where they were in full swing of exchanging memories of past NSY holiday parties and the levels of intoxication they’d all reached and breached over the years in front of superior officers. John was enjoying himself, obviously, but at quarter to midnight, his phone pinged. He pulled it out, then made a face at the screen with an eyeroll exaggerated by the amount of alcohol he’d had. 

At Greg’s inquiring look, he said, “I've been summoned.” His face indicated annoyance, but he was smiling. “I know, I know, but I need to make sure he’s not burning the flat down.” He didn’t need to mention he was dangerously close to too pissed to be around people. “See you soon, alright?” He nodded at the group. 

“Yep, see you next someone’s murdered cleverly,” Sally said, voice so devoid of rancor or judgment it almost sounded teasing.

“Lucky us!” sang back John.. He waved and left. Cavanaugh took it as a cue as well, exchanging farewells and handshakes before ducking into the night. 

Another twenty minutes passed before they all decided to follow the two leads, and left en masse to wait outside for cabs. Greg was leaning against the pub wall, rubbing his eyes, while Josie and Sally were having a hushed, giggle-filled conversation. “What are you laughing at?” Kirkland asked, raising an eyebrow at them. Josie turned her flushed face to him, grinning, and held up three fingers, which sent Sally into a fit of laughter.

“Not that Three Continents bullshit,” said Dimmock, sounding irritated. Out of the corner of his eye, Greg could see the way he was furrowing his brow at Josie, clearly not pleased at her thinking of another man in anyone’s bed.

“John’s good looking,” protested Sally. At Greg’s look, she blushed and laughed under her breath. “You know, objectively.”

“He looks like an choir boy.” Dimmock shook loose a cigarette from his pack, and Josie eagerly stuck out a hand for one. He didn’t even blink as he handed it over, though the tips of his ears went red when she leaned forward into his airspace for him to light it. “He’s got ‘virgin till uni’ written all over him.”

“I doubt it, “ said Kirkland. He was waving a hand in front of his face as an unwanted cloud of smoke settled over him. “Guys like that always got ass in college. Girls trust them.”

Levelling him with a glare, Dimmock replied, “Yeah, but he’d be pants at it. All needy and-”

“No, I bet he’s great at it.” Josie released a stream of smoke through her lips as she smiled at the sky. “You can tell. I bet he’s bloody marvelous at it.” Dimmock looked livid; Sally threw her friend a devilish grin. Greg and Kirkland did matching moves of moving closer. “You can tell by the way he walks, and the way he smiles.” She sucked in a lungful and released it lazily upwards, a cat-like grin at the corners of her mouth, with something close to arousal in her eyes. “Yeah, he looks like a choir boy now, but I bet, if he really wanted to, it’s like a switch,” she snapped her fingers and lowered her head to grin at them, “and you’re dragging him into bed without even thinking.”

“Being charming doesn’t mean being good in bed.”

“Told you, its in the way he walks. I bet he drags it out of you, too. He makes you think it was your idea the whole time, and you’ve got him right where you want him, and then he pulls it out of you one by one until you’re a mess.” Closing her eyes, Josie swayed a little on the spot with her face alight in bright color in her cheeks. After a second, her eyes snapped open, looking around with some embarrassment. Sally was beside her, clutching her stomach in laughter, and Dimmock was seconds away from having a meltdown. At that moment, a cab pulled up to the pub, seized immediately by Sally and Josie, who laughed and waved at the men. After the women had gone, there was an awkward silence as they all thought on her words. 

It was interrupted only by Greg’s coughing, which sounded awkward even to his own ears. Kirkland shook his head, stepping away from Dimmock’s cigarette cloud. “Shit.”

“Yes, complete shit.”

“Ah, George,” Greg said as he slung an arm around Dimmock’s shoulders. “Josie didn’t go home with him, right?”

“Besides, aren’t you always saying John’s only got eyes for Sherlock and all that?” 

“Yeah, alright.” Another cab pulled up and Dimmock crushed the cigarette under his heel. “Mind if I get this one? Got work in the morning.” Greg and Kirkland waved him off, and he threw out a, ‘Evening, gents’ before disappearing. Kirkland glanced at Greg before laughing. 

“What d’you think, sir? If I may ask.”

“John’s a good mate. But he’s arse with women, at least what I’ve seen.”

“Hidden depths,” said Kirkland, and Greg looked at him to see wiggling eyebrows. Laughing at the DI’s expression, Kirkland explained, “My mom always used to tell me about how people have all these hidden depths and no one ever really knows someone. Maybe John used to be a total sex god, and now he’s fine being a housewife. Who fucking knows? Who fucking cares, really.” Kirkland raised an arm, prompting a cab that had almost passed them to pull over. “Want this one?”

“Nah, all yours. Good night, Kirkland.”

“You too, sir. See you at work.”

It was another ten minutes before Greg got a cab. Ten minutes to think on what Josie had said. One by one, she’d murmured, looking blissful. He thought of how John had rolled his eyes, redirected the conversation, admonished Wilson, but never once did he blush. Never once did he indicate that it was the topic he didn’t like, but the reveal-

As Greg stepped into the cab he’d reflexively hailed, he shook his head, laughing. John Watson was not a sex god. He was a veteran with a weird friend and a weirder living situation, and nothing Josie murmured or Kirkland laughed or Wilson revealed would make him think anything differently. He gave Scotland Yard as his destination, knowing that it was going to be far more comfortable to just sleep in the room set aside of on-call officers than attempting to grab a few hours of peace in his shit post-divorce flat with its questionable mattress.

_You get bored when you sit in the desert for two weeks with nothing to do._ Lestrade thought of the way John had tilted his head back at Wilson's praise, laughing modestly, tilting a hand just this side of dismissive, grinning towards the bar with the gentle abandon that Sherlock, upon noticing, often swept away, before Greg or Sally or anyone could enjoy it. 

Greg twitched.

_Enjoyed it?_

He thought of all the "gentle girls" he'd assumed would lay beneath him after a date with placid acceptance, only to flip him expertly to his back and curl fingers into places he would never describe to mates. He thought of the gentle girls who tucked their hair into plaits with no intention to entice beyond the sheer pleasure of the deed. 

He paid the cabbie in a daze when they arrived, and walked Scotland Yard in a half-daze, caught in memory.

He remembered Maisie, the visiting forensics expert who had followed him to the dank, empty hotel room he'd found after his wife had decided - again - that she deserved the flat for the simple reason she wanted it. He remembered Maisie demanding nothing beyond that night, and the way she relished the heavy feel of his want for her against his tongue. For the first time in his life, he felt someone want him so badly that every salivary gland in his body begged for a taste. He felt the slick hot pull of her mouth on him, and he tried to pull away from it when every muscle in his body went rigid with release, but she simply ducked further onto his length to increase the hollow of her cheeks to taste what he offered. 

He imagined Maisie, and then Maisie's strawberry blonde hair faded to dishwater blond that tipped under his fingertips. He tilted his head back to the sound of John's gentle laughter at his ears, urging him forward as the short cut head knelt between his legs and peered upwards. This dream version of John turned to face Greg, even as he canted his hips upward and panted a prayer of encouragement as John swirled the blood-hot tip of his tongue against the waiting erection. 

Greg shook his head, throwing away the interloping image, as he climbed the stairs to the room he knew had a handful of cots that were surprisingly comfortable, and a door that looked like a broom closet unless you knew exactly what it was. He carefully scooted into the hidden nap room and hung his suit jacket, trousers, and dress shirt on the door before crawling into the comfiest cot in his vest and pants. So few people knew about this seemingly abandoned nap room that Greg, having seen one of the few off in a cab back to his own flat, felt comfortable enough to reach for the edge of the duvet and drag it over his lower body to hide the way his fingertips danced down his body to his straining cock. He felt the flutter of pleasure when his fingertips connected start at his toes and travel happily up every nerve ending to his lips.

Later, there would be time for consideration of how terribly rude it was to wank to the thought of a colleague and/or friend. Later, it would all make looking at John at crime scenes so terribly awkward. But for now, tucked away in the privacy of the single cot room meant for Detective Inspectors that had been there for days, Greg dipped a hand into his pants and didn't feel the slightest twinge of guilt.

Fuck.

John.

Greg pulled and bucked and swore to the image of grey-blond hair bobbing expertly between his legs, and as he came spectacularly all over his own fist, wondered how long he could get away with calling John "Johnny Three C" before his tone sounded more lascivious than teasing.

And then how long before lascivious turned to invitation.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in response (vaguely, I am sure) to a kinkmeme prompt from ages ago, and I think the original intention I had of a multi-chaptered porn fiesta might've gone the way of the dodo. However, I like the idea of John having an international reputation, and the show can take a running effing leap trying to take that away from him. Give us back Johnny 3C. 
> 
> This message is brought to you in part by the Martin Freeman is a Sex God Foundation.


End file.
